Uncle Mycroft
by darthsydious
Summary: Mycroft comes to grips with being an Uncle. Collection of one-shots. Eventual Mythea, intermittent Sherlolly and Warstan.
1. Uncle Mycroft

_While working on the next chapter for "Cut and Carried" I got hit with a plotbunny. This will be a series of one-shots of Mycroft and his favorite niece._

* * *

Charlotte Holmes was not having any of it. Not the lipstick kisses, the scratchy beard faces that peered down into hers, or the wiggly fingers that made as if to tickle her. She squirmed and writhed in every pair of arms that held her. Her little red mouth pulled into a frown. She disliked being passed from person to person. She disliked that she could not see her parents at all. Suddenly someone was pulling her from the stranger.

"Here sweetheart, you look overwhelmed," Mrs. Holmes picked up her granddaughter, not even apologizing to the distant relative who had been holding her. A house full of strangers all cooing and pinching Charlotte's cheeks and pushing to see her, poor dear was quite sick of it. Having secured her granddaughter, Violet went in search of her eldest son (who had made his obligatory Saturday afternoon visit not realizing the crowd of people already there). Just as she thought, she found Mycroft in the orchard, just beyond the kitchen garden.

At the sound of Charlotte's sobs, Mycroft turned with a start.

"Here Mycroft," Violet said over the noise. "Take her. She needs some peace and quiet."

His niece was thrust into his arms and he grunted, awkwardly cradling her.

"You look as if you'd do with some peace," he replied.

"Oh it's just so irritating! I shouldn't have mentioned I had Charlotte this weekend!"

"Temper, temper, Mother, one must share one's grandchildren."

"Oh do shut up," Violet snapped, irritable, but her features softened after a moment. "Do try to calm her down," she nodded to the still squalling baby in his arms. "She's had such a dreadful time today. Beastly strangers poking and prodding her."

Mycroft pulled a face, remembering all too clearly being small and adults always wanting to pat him on the head, adjust his clothes and generally talk down to him. Charlotte could not yet walk, and so she was twice as helpless. It did not help at all that she was a particularly pretty baby.

Violet hurried back inside, hearing Sigurd rapping on the window, his request to be rescued from the relatives.

In the orchard it was still, and so Mycroft shifted Charlotte up, cradling her so she could face forward and see the trees. She twisted around though, wanting to face him, so he turned her around again, and she instantly curled against him, hiccupping back sobs. Instinctively, Mycroft soothed her small back until she sighed contentedly. He had held his niece twice before, at the hospital, when she was first born, and then once at Baker Street. Both times, Charlotte had laid quite placidly in his arms, seeming to be perfectly content to sit and look at him. He didn't know why she seemed so content with him. Probably because he didn't go poking her cheeks and waving insipid toys in her face.

"Well I suppose we may as well have a chat while we are here," Mycroft said, somewhat conversationally to the quiet babe in his arms. "Shall we go for a walk?" Charlotte cooed in response. "Very well then." He stepped through the taller grass, ducking under the lower branches of the flowering fruit trees. "I expect your father would have some lesson for you on bees and how they affect the success of the orchard. He's always up on some odd fact. I'm afraid my subject of study is politics, and very boring for one of your age," he glanced at Charlotte, who looked at him as if she were listening and understanding him. He quirked an eyebrow. "Very well then, I am in the midst of trying to undo a very stupid decision of the current prime minister's son, or at least, that's one of the problems I'm sorting out. It' the least of them, really." He discussed the meeting of the United Nations with her, his last committee with several military generals, the idiocy of the nuclear proposal that kept sliding onto his desk, among a host of other subjects one does not usually talk to a baby about. Mycroft couldn't be bothered with babbling 'baby speak'. It was ridiculous. While the noises did illicit Charlotte's own noises, and probably prompted speech, he'd rather encourage full words from her rather than nonsensical grunts. In any case, Charlotte didn't seem to mind. If she had something she felt was important to say, she babbled on in her own manner of speech, her tone quite clear that she had something to say and Mycroft ought to listen, to which he usually responded: "Oh I see," or "Hmmhmm, you make a good point." In any case, the afternoon was pleasantly spent, for Mycroft got to solve at least three problems he'd been working on, and Charlotte was rescued from the pinching relatives.

Mycroft had not realized that this incident would stick with Charlotte however.

The next time he stopped at Baker Street, Charlotte was home again (Sherlock and Molly were back from their case). Charlotte very happily wriggled in her playpen, seeing her Uncle, and she reached for him.

"Up!" she demanded, a newly learned word.

"What, baby?" Molly bent, picking her up, and Charlotte stretched across her mother, to her uncle who sat quietly in John's chair, looking over the London Times. "Oh, err, Mycroft,"

The paper lowered, and Mycroft saw Charlotte reaching for him. He merely folded the paper over, placed it on the arm of the chair, and held out his arms for the child. Once on his lap, Charlotte stuck her fingers in her mouth and remained quiet, happily so. With her free hand she fingered the buttons on his waistcoat, his gold watch chain, and found the pen in his breast pocket, which Mycroft quickly removed from her hands (an old fashioned fountain pen he rather did not want her to open and ruin his suit with). She did not fuss or try to climb down, not even when John and Mary came over, which surprised Molly. Charlotte loved John and Mary to pieces.

"What's the matter, Charlotte? Feeling quiet today?" Molly smoothed down her daughter's unruly curls. Charlotte only went on poking the watch chain in Mycroft's button-loop. Ever insightful, Molly realized that her daughter wasn't feeling down, merely comfortable. Every child needs someone they feel perfectly safe with, so Molly let them be.

Mycroft was gone from London for several weeks, very busy with top-secret meetings and dealing with the general problems that would affect the nation as well as the world. He received intermittent texts from Molly, keeping him updated on Charlotte's progress with speech and her attempts at walking. He received a picture, taken from Molly's phone of Charlotte facing the camera, standing upright, Sherlock's feet just behind her, her tiny fists curled around her father's thumbs, grinning cheekily at the camera. Mycroft studied the photo for exactly three minutes, suddenly overcome with a bout of homesickness. He immediately sent the picture to the 'To Be Deleted' folder on his phone and emptied it. After a moment, he reopened the text, saved the file, and shut his phone off.

 **Three Weeks Later, 221b Baker Street, London**

"Welcome back!"

Mycroft bent slightly, accepting his sister in-law's peck on the cheek.

"How is my baby brother?"

"He's fine," Molly cast her eyes over to the sofa where her husband was sprawled, currently deep in his mind-palace. "He's solving a case right now."

"Hmm, yes, a 'twelve' he told me."

"Yes, he said he'd asked you for some files."

"I sent them already."

"That must be what he's going over," Molly nodded. She noticed Mycroft lingering, looking about the living room. "Will you stay for tea? Mary brought over a fresh loaf of bread."

"I have thirty minutes," Mycroft conceded.

"I was just about to get Charlotte up as well," Molly said. "Put the kettle on?" she was already heading down the hall, not waiting for his answer.

Mycroft set his umbrella and case down, reaching for the electric kettle. Molly Hooper Holmes was the only woman (aside from his mother) who could get him to brew tea outside of his own home. By the time it was set up, Molly had returned, a sleepy-eyed Charlotte in her arms. Mycroft suppressed a sudden urge to grab the child and hold her. Instead he went on getting out mugs and plates.

"Mycroft," Molly's soft voice called. Knowing full well she was about to hand him Charlotte, he went on putting out tea.

"Will Charlotte be having anything?"

"Mycroft," Molly repeated, so he turned.

Oh.

There stood Charlotte, unassisted, her wide, bright eyes staring up at him. She covered her mouth with her little fingers, giggling before she took a wobbly step, and then another and another before she broke out into a full-tilt run screeching: "Unca! Unca! Unca!"

She head-butted his shins, still giggling as she plopped to the floor, stretching her arms up as high as she could reach.

Mycroft swallowed the lump in his throat, blinking quite a bit (the flat was just so dusty, _obviously_ ). He bent, picking her up. Before he could even take a step, she wriggled to get down, so he placed her on her feet again. But instead of running back to her mother, she took him by the finger (for one finger was all she could possibly hold) and tugged him over to John's chair, patting the cushion. He obeyed, sitting down, and she clambered up onto his lap. Settled against his chest, she placed her fingers in her mouth, and with her free hand, traced the stripes on his waistcoat.

"We showed her your picture," Molly explained, smiling at his curious expression. "She's been begging to see you for the past two weeks."

He glanced at his brother, who was clearly not in his mind-palace, but now sitting up on the sofa, looking piss-pleased with himself. "I helped her to balance, and she's been walking ever since. She also would not shut up about you every night until we showed her your picture. So I expect you're her new favorite…aside from us, obviously."

"Don't be mean," Molly handed Sherlock his tea, and then went to Mycroft, removed Charlotte's fingers from her mouth and gave her a piece of bread to chew on. "I'll set your tea here where she can't spill it,"

"Right." Mycroft was surprised at how difficult it was to speak.

Sherlock noticed, obviously, but said nothing, though his eyes and his smile were terrifically smug.

Mycroft, for once, could not be bothered. He stayed all afternoon, not even minding that Charlotte dropped breadcrumbs all over his brand new suit. He didn't mind her sucking her fingers and then touching his waistcoat. When he felt her grow heavy in his arms, he looked down and realized she'd fallen asleep on him, head against his ribcage. He shifted her carefully, so that she was lying down on his lap, and Molly draped a blanket over her.

She was about to say 'I can take her,' but Mycroft stiffened immediately, bunching up his knees.

"Don't you dare," he muttered. Molly barely smothered her grin, and shrugged. Taking his empty mug, she went to the kitchen to refill it.

"We've got a three-day weekend coming up," Molly said.

Mycroft glanced over his shoulder.

"Hm."

"It's good for children to go visit relatives…" Molly prompted again.

Oh.

"Yes well…I am quite busy at the moment-" his phone suddenly buzzed in his pocket, so he excused himself, carefully removing it from his breast pocket without disturbing Charlotte.

 _Holiday weekend is taken care of. Called your housekeeper, she's opening up the country house. – Anthea._

"Time to go?" Molly asked, noting his silence.

"Soon," Mycroft conceded, pocketing his phone. "It seems I have a holiday weekend free." He looked at Charlotte, still fast asleep in his arms. "If…Charlotte would care to come for a day or two."

"I think she'd love to spend her first sleepover with you," Molly agreed. "I'll make sure she's all ready for you."

"Yes well…" he cleared his throat, suddenly thinking of how quickly Charlotte was growing up. Soon she'd be old enough for riding lessons. The idea of her playing in the garden on his country estate made him smile inwardly. "If you hadn't anything else planned for her."

Molly's smile was far too knowing as she set a fresh mug of tea down beside him. "No, not a thing." She squeezed his shoulder in passing. "Charlotte loves her 'Unca 'Croft'."

Mycroft did not voice it, but as he studied the sleeping child in his arms, he thought that perhaps, perhaps, he just might love Charlotte as well.


	2. Boys Are Stupid

_Jilted at her very first school formal, Charlotte is heartbroken. Good thing her Uncle is the understanding sort. Sort of. At any rate he can always arrest the stupid boy. Uncle Mycroft to the rescue!_

* * *

Charlotte Holmes, for the most part, had inherited her mother's shyness. Still, both her parents were clever, and they'd been good enough to pass it on to her.

It didn't make waiting at the edge of the dance floor at the school formal any easier. Sixteen years old, asked out by one of the school's top football players, Eddie Holden. Charlotte couldn't help but be nervous. She'd never been on a date before, and was thrilled to the core that this was to be her first. It was perfect, it just had to be!

If only her date would show up.

She scanned the rented ballroom, keeping an eye out for the dark haired jock. She adjusted the straps of her gown, smoothing down the front. Okay, so…the dance was half over…and her date hadn't come yet. So what if this was supposed to be the most important night her teen life?

Song after song played, and she lingered by the punch bowl, feeling more and more obscure. Waiting would have been so much easier if John and Mary's son Scott hadn't had the flu. He was her best chum, and both were sorely disappointed that he couldn't make the dance.

"Hey, Holmes!"

She turned with a start, smile forming, until she saw that it was one of Eddie's friends, rather than her date.

"H-hello," again she fiddled with the strap of her dress. "Um…where's Eddie, is he coming?"

"Yeah, he's been here for ages," the boy gestured across the room to the more popular crowd. There stood her supposed date, arm slung around another girl, clearly not giving poor Charlotte another thought.

For all her timidity, Charlotte felt anger well up inside her, and she marched across the ballroom, the skirt of her gown billowing behind her.

"Edward Holden," she bit out.

The boy turned with a start, then a slow, nervous smile formed. "Oh…hey…uh…" he glanced at the girl on his arm, then back at Charlotte. Both girls looked at the other, confused, uncomfortable. "So…scuse me a sec, okay?" he said to his date. "I'll be right back."

"Don't bother." the girl had understood the situation, and decided she didn't like it one bit, instead crossing the room to find her own friends. Eddie watched her go, clearly upset, then took Charlotte by the hand, pulling her away from the crowd.

"So that's why you said you'd rather meet here than pick me up?" Charlotte asked bitterly.

"No! Okay…well…yeah…it just sort of happened!"

"You _asked me!_ " Charlotte insisted. "If you didn't want to take me, why ask me?!"

"I did want to! I felt bad because it was Thursday already, and you hadn't been asked yet." Eddie insisted.

The hurt on her face was unmistakable, and Eddie did feel bad then. He rubbed the back of his neck. "I mean…okay I didn't know you were gonna get all dressed up and buy yourself a corsage, geeze, nobody does that anymore. You're the studious type. I didn't think you'd actually _come!_ "

Charlotte had never hit anyone in her life before. It didn't mean she didn't know how.

She left Eddie standing by the potted palms, holding his face, willing the sting of her slap away as she stormed out, pushing past her Aunt Mary and Uncle John who were chaperoning the dance.

Outside of the overheated ballroom, she took a deep breath, wincing at the pain in her chest. Shame-faced, tears rolling down her cheeks, she ran through the foyer, not stopping until she was halfway down the front steps of the museum. She realized she hadn't called her father for a lift back home. She wasn't sure she wanted to go home yet. Sinking down on the steps, her gown pooled around her, and she suddenly hated her dress. It was a beautiful pink color her mother helped pick out. All lace and chiffon and lady-like. Her mother had even splurged and let her get her hair and nails done at a salon, and Anthea, her Uncle's pa, let her use her own stylist to do her make-up.

 _What a joke._

"Charlotte?"

She turned with a start, then slumped forward, leaning her chin against her knees. "How'd you find me Uncle Mycroft?"

"I should think you're old enough to know that I know everything."

She huffed, rolling her eyes. "You're just like dad."

"What happened?" he asked.

"I thought you knew everything."

"I was passing by and I received a text from Mary Watson that you'd been 'ditched'." he replied. "Care to talk about it?"

"No." her voice was strained, before she knew it she was in tears again.

He shifted, uneasy. "Are you hungry? Why don't we leave?" He suggested, but she remained stubbornly where she sat, still crying. "We can pick up a bag of fish and chips," he tried.

She shook her head mutely, blinking back tears.

Fish and chips usually worked. Fish and chips were their own special thing, and he only ever ate them in Charlotte's company. Now though, he supposed that this was not the time for food, despite his knowing she hadn't eaten all day from the sheer excitement for the dance.

She sniffled pitifully. "I feel so stupid Uncle Mycroft. I thought he liked me…"

Mycroft did not know how to respond. He had not had to deal with Charlotte crying in a number of years. The last time she'd cried in front of him, he was able to offer her ice cream and the tears had stopped. Now, he wasn't so sure that treats were the correct solution to stopping her from crying. He hated seeing her so upset. He'd been a pushover for her tears ever since she was born. It was a thousand times worse to find your sixteen year old niece sitting on the steps of a museum, looking like a jilted princess.

Hitching up the knees of his trousers, he sat down on the cold steps, digging through his breast pocket for his handkerchief. "He isn't worthy of you, you know, nor these tears, hm?" he crooked a finger under her chin, dabbing her eyes with his kerchief. "Shall I have him arrested for you? I can think of several perfectly dank cells to put him in. Your Aunt Anthea might even put him in the Tower of London if you like." He meant to make her laugh, but her smile was only bittersweet.

"You can't arrest someone for not liking you," she huffed.

There was truth in that, much as he hated to admit it.

"He's a fool," Mycroft declared. "And you are forbidden to disagree. He's a foolish boy, with foolish ideals. He's a cad as well, for asking you to a soiree he had no intention of following through on."

"I know," she shrugged, finally taking the handkerchief from him and wiping her nose. "That's the worst part. I was so excited to have been asked out, and to such a big event, I'm so upset that I wasted all this," she gestured to her dress and hair. "I didn't even get to dance."

Mycroft was studying her. He had never seen the appeal of school formals. Pubescent teens all thrown together in rented tuxedos and ill-fitting gowns (Charlotte was the only one with a mother wise enough to tailor the gown to her daughter), drinking rancid punch and exchanging the most uncomfortable kisses, dancing in that ridiculous side-to-side manner. Charlotte had even taken a few dance lessons, just in case there would be proper dances like the old formal promenades. Looking at his niece, he could see all the hope and wonder she'd held for the night out slipping away from her grasp. He didn't know why such a night was so important to her, just that it was. Perhaps it was the prospect of a fancy gown, the idea that someone might like you for you. That must have been it.

Her uncle suddenly got to his feet, fishing through his pocket for his phone, he swiped the screen, clearly looking for something. He set the phone down on the steps as a waltz began to play from the speakers, the sound amplified by the surrounding columns. Stepping down to the courtyard, he held out his hand to her.

"May I have the honor of the first dance, Miss Charlotte?"

Charlotte looked down at her uncle. Her uncle who was the definition of posh and poised. He did not dance, he never sought out a chance to stand out. But here he was, standing in front of the British Museum, asking to dance with her. Laughing to herself, she got up, somewhat clumsily, smoothed down her dress, and accepted his hand.

"Thank you," she curtsied prettily, and he chuckled, giving her a short bow before the music picked up, and he suddenly swept her off on the music. Laughter bubbled up inside her and she couldn't help it. Her tear-stained cheeks were rosy, and her eyes were shining again. She laughed, laughed for the whole ridiculous evening, at the idea of dancing with her uncle instead of a boy her age, and laughed for the fun of the moment. It might have been the most pathetic thing in the world, going to a school formal and only dancing with your uncle, but for the life of her, Charlotte couldn't have cared less, nor would she have had any number of cute boys in her school trade places with her uncle. She saw her foolishness, in hoping that such a stupid boy as Eddie Holden would ever be her equal. The waltz came to an end, and she rested her cheek against her uncle's suit, hugging him.

" _Thank you,_ Uncle Mycroft."

Chin against the top of her head, he smiled, returning the embrace. "You are most welcome, my dear." She stepped away, retrieving his phone for him, shivering in the cool spring air. "Let's get you home then, see if we can't do some damage control, for I'm certain your Uncle John has already texted your father."

"Can we stop for something to eat first? I didn't eat at the party," she tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow. He patted her hand, signaling his driver to pull up to the curb.

"Fish and chips?"

"Oh yes please!" the little bounce in her step returned, and her cheeks dimpled as she beamed up at her favorite uncle.


	3. Working from Home

_Inspired by a recent clip from BBC, from a skype interview. It's seriously the best, you guys gotta check it out._

* * *

"Excuse me, Mr. Holmes, I think one of your children has just come in the room," the prime minister disliked interrupting Mycroft Holmes, especially when the skype connection was already spotty, but the sight of a two-year-old coming in, bearing two rather bedraggled dolls could potentially be embarrassing for all.

Completely unfazed, Mycroft gently nudged his niece to stand behind him, but she paid him no mind, bopping the dolls together.

"Come play!" she insisted.

Mycroft was about to remind Charlotte that now was not the time to play, but suddenly in toddled his nephew, Nicholas, in a baby walker, top speed, babbling his nonsensical words to anyone within listening distance. It took all of Mycroft's training to not smile, (he was fairly sure he was failing, watching the reversed camera on the monitor).

"My apologies, gentlemen," he said. He'd just managed to take control of his features again when suddenly Molly came in on all fours, keeping her head down, she grabbed Charlotte by the wrist, gently tugging her along, then turned and grabbed the back of the walker, pulling him backwards towards the door. The look of bewilderment on his nephew's face as he was towed backwards nearly did poor Mycroft in.

"Uncle Mycwoft it's time for dollies!" Charlotte insisted as they disappeared from view.

"My apologies gent-" Mycroft was cut off by Molly reappearing, still on all fours, reaching up and grabbing the door, shutting it after her. At last, the room was quiet again, and the screen only contained Mycroft Holmes, the background empty of distraction.

By now, the conference room was staring, doing their best not to laugh as they waited for Mr. Holmes to speak again.

"We can always reconvene at a more opportune time," the prime minister offered, face red from holding in his laughter.

"Not at all," Mycroft answered, quite at ease, and taking keen delight in the group trying not to give way to hysterics.

 **Some time later…**

Meeting ended, Mycroft shed his jacket, leaving the office and heading to the kitchen where he could hear Molly and the children.

Hearing her brother in-law's footsteps, straightened from feeding Nicholas. "Mycroft, I am so, so sorry, I'd gone up to fetch something for Anthea and they just-" she worried the hem of her sweater, concerned she'd mucked up something important.

"Never mind, Molly," he quirked a smile at the children, taking a seat by Charlotte at the table. She looked up at him, chewing on her plastic fork. "They didn't end the world, and it was rather amusing, seeing Nicholas come in at top speed."

He'd nearly broken completely, seeing Nicholas blunder in after Charlotte, not a care in the world, his glasses, (which looked more like swimming goggles) slightly crooked from his little fingers rubbing his face. It reminded him of Sherlock, when he'd begun to walk.

"What was the meeting for? Nothing very important I hope." Molly asked.

"Nothing at all," Mycroft promised. "Just something with the BBC, I daresay they know well enough to keep that clip from circulating in the public."

"I hope the family can keep it, at any rate," Molly said, daring a smile, to which Mycroft actually returned it, agreeing that arrangements could be made for a copy to be sent to Molly's phone.

"Now, Miss Charlotte," he said with a tone of authority. "What is this I hear about dolls?"

"It's time, it's time!" Charlotte squealed, dropping her fork with a clatter. She squirmed to get down from her booster seat, grabbing Mycroft by the hand and pulling him along. Molly could only shake her head, laughing as her brother in-law went. There was a time when this sort of thing would have mortified him, when Mycroft Holmes would not hold a baby, and would certainly not have comported himself in the manner earlier, had a child burst in on a meeting. Pulling out her phone, Molly tapped away at the screen.

"Just you wait until your Aunt Mary hears about this," she said to Nicholas, who clapped his hands, gleeful.


	4. Not Quite Uncle

_Pre Sherlolly story. Alternate Mary dying solution. Mycroft secretly loves babies. Fight me on this._

* * *

"There, sit with your Uncle Mycroft while I make tea."

"Uh-"

"I can't very well hold Rosie and make tea, or do you suggest I scald the baby?" Molly asked. She settled baby Rosie into Mycroft's arms, and just for a moment, he tensed. Slowly, he relaxed his arms, and Rosie snuggled comfortably against him, giving him a toothless grin.

"You're not making tea," Mycroft commented, not even looking up from the baby.

"Yeah I know, I lied. I put the tea in as soon as you knocked on the door. I just wanted to see you hold her." At the sound of a camera click, he looked up.

"Don't worry, I won't post it anywhere."

"Thank you." He turned and headed to the nearest chair in the living room, easing down so as not to jostle the baby. "I'm not her uncle, by the way."

"Well I think 'Mr. Holmes is a bit formal," Molly replied, carrying the tea tray in. "And besides, Sherlock is her Uncle."

"'Godfather'," Mycroft corrected.

"Yes, but he's still called 'Uncle Sherlock'."

"He was there for her birth, I did not see the child until a week later, and even then it was only a snapshot on Sherlock's mobile."

Molly was studying him a moment, hearing the annoyance in his voice, annoyance…and a hint of jealousy. "I didn't know you liked babies, Mycroft," she said.

He looked up, startled. "I…do…not…"

She looked at him, clearly enjoying Rosie's smiles and giggles. "Right."

"Well…she is a Watson…and Mary's daughter was of course going to be an exceptional one."

"You've never thought about children?"

"Have you?" he retorted, a touch of vinegar in his tone. Rosie began to fuss, and tears rolled down her cheeks. "I'll see to her," he said and nodded for Molly to sort out the tea things.

"Fair enough," she nodded, and let the subject be. She poured out, plated the sandwiches, and sat back with her mug, watching Mycroft blow gently on Rosie's face. Just as soon as the tears had started, they stopped, and Rosie relaxed again.

"How is Mary?" Mycroft asked.

Molly fell silent. She considered her mug for a moment, blinking back tears. It had only been a week since Mary had been shot. She'd stepped in front of a bullet meant for Sherlock. Molly spent most of the first two days convincing Sherlock it was not his fault. John, in-between vigils at Mary's bedside in the hospital, yelled at Sherlock to the point of driving him away, until Molly stepped in and slapped the good doctor.

" _I know you're grieving, but what for, John? Mary's here, she's alive! She made her choice to protect Sherlock, she made her choice. Sherlock didn't shove her in front of him, Mary stepped out. So stop acting as if Sherlock's at fault! I know you're fretting, I know you're thinking about the what-ifs, but now is not the time. Focus on what you do have: you've still got Mary, Rosie still has a mother, and you've got us, Sherlock and me, and Mrs. Hudson and Greg. We're all here for you. Stop behaving like a complete tit, and tell Sherlock you're sorry."_

John, to his credit, apologized to Sherlock. Both men cried, finding release through tears. Sherlock spent his nights at Molly's and visited Mary daily. She was awake now, and would be right as rain.

Realizing she hadn't answered him, Molly smiled, tired, "She's awake now, getting better every day. It's been a long week."

"Hm. And babysitting has fallen to you, I see."

"Well, John was being a tosser and told me in no uncertain terms that Sherlock was not to watch Rosie. Mrs. Hudson had a nasty fall and she's not in a position to watch her either." She sank further down into the sofa cushions, feeling the exhaustion of the week catching up with her. "Sherlock has Wiggins bringing Mrs. Hudson her meals when he can't be there," she added after a moment.

"Well then, as I am here, and I seem perfectly in my depths to watch a child for an hour or two, why don't you go upstairs and draw a hot bath for yourself, after which I suggest we go to the Hospital so Mary can see Rosamund, and then Baker Street."

"Baker street?" Molly frowned. "What for?"

"John has forgiven Sherlock, I would imagine it is high time Sherlock did his duty as godfather and watched Rosamund so you can have a proper night's rest. You're a godmother, not a free nanny service. I shall make the appropriate calls to find someone suitable until Mary is back on her feet and John stops behaving like a larger version of his daughter, though to be quite honest, Rosamund is behaving like a perfect lady."

It was at that moment that Rosie spit up, all over Mycroft's finely tailored suitcoat. Without missing a beat, Mycroft blinked, sighed, and carefully shrugged out of the coat, minding that he did not jostle the baby. "A lady who has had too many bottles at the cocktail bar."

Molly was dismayed, jumping to her feet, "Oh no! Oh I'll clean it for you-"

Mycroft held up a hand. "It is not the first time I've been vomited on, Sherlock was quite the little puker as a baby. Never mind. Go upstairs and relax. I don't want to see you down here for at least two hours. We shall be perfectly all right, won't we?" he asked Rosie, who gurgled, kicking her feet.

"Well…okay…if you're sure," Molly hesitated. It wasn't that she didn't trust Mycroft. He never offered if he was not capable, matter of fact, even if he was capable he wouldn't offer.

"Quite sure," he nodded, again waving for her to go. "Clean clothes for the baby are?"

"In the overnight bag by the sofa, fresh nappies are in the downstairs guest bath and if she needs a bath-"

"I don't hear water running," Mycroft called, so Molly, giving one last look over her shoulder, headed upstairs. Mycroft waited until he heard her bedroom door close, and water begin to fill the tub in her ensuite bathroom. "Now!" he smiled gently, bringing Rosie over to the changing mat. "What do you suppose your mother should like to see you in?"

Rosamund Watson might not have been his niece, but she'd was a perfectly acceptable substitute. At least until Sherlock and Molly would hurry up and realize how suitable they were for each other. "We'll have to see if we can do something about that, won't we?" he asked Rosamund conversationally. The baby merely stuffed a fist into her mouth, giggling. "Hmm. Yes, you and your mummy I think must both be recruited. Else I'll never have a little niece or nephew, and you won't have any playmates." Finished cleaning her up, he sat back a moment. "I never leave a deal unsettled, so shall we shake on it?" Rosamund waved her free arm, and Mycroft caught it, her little fingers wrapping around his index finger. "It's a deal then."


	5. A dance

Chubby hands grasped Mycroft's lean fingers, and ten wriggling, tiny toes stepped onto the toes of his polished shoes.

"And…One…two…three, one…two…three, one…two…three, that is very good,"

A pair of large, dark eyes peeked up at him from watching their feet, and a mostly toothless grin appeared on the shining face. He released one of Charlotte's hands to brush the wispy curls from her face.

"Your mummy needs to trim your hair," he said. Charlotte merely hummed an answer, looking back at their feet. Still standing on his shoes, she bent her legs, then straightened, indicating she wanted to move again.

It wasn't really dancing, not proper dancing, but then one can't expect a baby who's just learned to walk to know how to waltz.

Mycroft liked babies. He loved Rosie Watson with a ferocity he did not expect, and when his niece came along, he was taken aback by the familiar waves of familial protectiveness that came about only for those he especially loved.

Sherlock had at last come to his senses and married Molly Hooper. When Charlotte was placed into his arms for the first time, Mycroft wept. A tiny, lovely baby to protect and cherish, one hopefully without sorrow for many years to come. A playmate for Rosie, and…perhaps one day be a cousin, should the happy day ever come for Mycroft and his own fiancée. So many possibilities!

Charlotte loved her Uncle Mycroft. Indeed he was her favorite outside of her parents of course. She loved John and Mary too, naturally, and Mrs. Hudson. But there was a particularly happy smile she only had for her Uncle.

"More!" Charlotte insisted, when Mycroft stopped dancing with her.

"Oh very well," he relented, smiling. "Go on now, a nice big twirl, there, that's lovely your majesty."

On the television, the latest Cinderella film was playing, and it was Charlotte's favorite part: the ball. Now that she had mastered walking, she was very happily twirling along with the music when Mycroft set her on his shoes and had begun dancing with her.

Now, up and down the empty living room. Charlotte had been content at first to twirl and make the big skirt of her Cinderella costume fan out, (she'd run and insisted on wearing it as soon as Mycroft suggested a film after luncheon). Now she was just as happy to stand on the toes of his shoes and watch him move them around the floor, even if it was slower.

These were fleeting moments. Charlotte wouldn't be this small forever, she'd outgrow the princess dresses and standing on her loved ones' shoes. She's be too big to carry, and then she'd be off to primary. She'd find boys her age to dance with in time. But that was not for a good while yet. There would be time enough for growing up. For now, Mycroft was perfectly content to savor this lovely memory of his niece standing on his shoes, dancing around his flat.


End file.
